


To Be Or Not To Be

by LynnLarsh



Category: Equilibrium (2002), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotion Play, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes hadn't become the highest ranking Grammaton Cleric simply by chance.  But his newest mission might be too much even for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Means To An End

The walls of the abandoned schoolhouse were worn with neglect and in the process of crumbling away, stained at the corners a sickly black-green from asbestos and mold. Holmes was certain he’d be disgusted if he had the ability to feel anything at all. Instead, he walked past the disease ridden, paint chipped walls with no little amount of disinterest, grip loose and easy on the guns in each hand and eyes focused indifferently on the length of hallway ahead.

This particular group of the Resistance was responsible for a number of murdered officials and the illegal salvaging of the Museo D'Orsay’s only remaining paintings, a collection that had been impressively hidden from the Council for decades. It had taken months of planning and infiltration before a window of opportunity had opened up, the timing finally falling in their favor in a way that could almost be considered too perfect. A surprising bout of good luck, or a trap. Either way, Sherlock Holmes hadn’t become the highest ranking Grammaton Cleric by simply chance; not one of the Sense Offenders would be making it out alive.

“This way,” Lestrade motioned with the barrel of his gun, the slew of Enforcers filing into the other length of hallway supposedly leading to the Resistance’s base. While Sherlock was more than capable of working alone---a fact he’d mentioned on countless occasions to his superiors---partners were deemed mandatory by the Tetragrammaton Council, and Greg Lestrade had been his for going on five years. A man unmatched at Gun Kata---with the exception of Sherlock himself---with an unprecedented knack for pinpointing plausible Resistance camps in the Nether. Many believed it was only a matter of time before he located the Underground itself, though Sherlock was not of a similar confidence. Sherlock saw everything, observed every detail, noticed, analyzed, and catalogued the smallest of possibilities in their government’s flawless system, and Greg Lestrade being the end of the Resistance wasn’t one of them. For obvious reasons.

It had started with an almost unnoticeable---to anyone other than Sherlock---hesitation on raids, Lestrade’s grip tightening just so before pulling the trigger, his eyes and lips narrowing at the corners in what one might call a grimace whenever arrested Offenders cried out angry, ineloquent profanities or pleaded for their lives in the seconds before execution. Eventually, Sherlock noticed, Lestrade had stopped firing his gun all together, the man’s trips to the Nether becoming almost nightly while his repossession of EC-10 items lessened to practically nonexistent. Of course, Sherlock wasn’t quick to bring his partner’s Sense Offense to light. Not out of any illegal notions of kindness or loyalty but rather a need for timing; when it would be the most beneficial for Sherlock Holmes and his career, Greg Lestrade would see execution for his crimes, just like the rest.

“Once again, Holmes,” Lestrade whispered into the silence, his words punctuated by the click of the Enforcers’ heels on the rotted wooden floorboards and the whispers of direction as they separated into various open doorways. “Your abilities outdo themselves.” This was the fifth time in the last two weeks that Lestrade had tried to gauge the possibility of Sherlock’s own Sense Offense, a mistake more than a few had made since Sherlock’s initiation into the Grammaton Cleric. It was Sherlock’s ability to fake emotion that made him such a valuable asset to the Council, his ability to convince even the most far gone Sense Offenders of his ability to feel. But it also caused many a debate over his “true nature,” some even going so far as to imply he was neglecting his Prozium before cases. Sherlock had been the one to infiltrate the Resistance Group after Lestrade’s pinpointing of their location, convincing them through disguise and no little amount of acting that he was recently off his injections, slowly gaining their trust as well as access to their base. Which was when he’d returned to the Cleric with his information and a plan for ambush, donning his uniform and heading out with Lestrade in tow that night.

“I do what I must,” Sherlock replied simply, turning off the safety on both guns and walking assuredly towards where he knew the group to be, Lestrade following on his heels. The room was dim and quiet, lit only by the slivers of moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the ceiling, but even so, it was easy enough to see the display before them, Lestrade’s hand offering its tell-tale grip of emotional response on the handle of his gun. Bound together in a line, blindfolded and gagged, were the ten men of the Resistance, on their knees with hands tied behind their backs, awaiting their fate and trembling under the fear of it. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes or grimaced, he mused. Maybe scoffed or pitied them, though he doubted he’d be that sort of man. Emotion was a burden. A curse. And one Sherlock Holmes had never and would never suffer from.

It wasn’t until the Enforcers were surrounding the line of men that Lestrade seemed to finally locate a verbal response to the situation, the Cleric lowering his gun to his side. Sherlock noticed the safety was still on. “How long?” Lestrade asked through gritted teeth. Sherlock didn’t even bother to look at him.

“For months,” he replied. “You were hardly inconspicuous, Lestrade.” 

“Then why let me keep sending them away if you knew?” He sounded angry, Sherlock registered objectively, cataloguing the new inflections and raise of voice. It was almost strange to hear them in Lestrade’s familiar, generally stoic tone. “Why keep on-?”

“Because you offered a means to an end,” Sherlock cut him off, motioning to the Enforcers with a tilt of his head, a barrage of gunfire cracking into bursts of existence before fizzling off, an echo of sound and ten dead bodies lingering in their absence. “All of those Resistance groups you “sent away” were gathered, catalogued, and executed on record. Each trip you took to the Nether was our opportunity to collect the filth you left behind.”

“You bastard,” Lestrade practically seethed. It was something akin to fascinating. “I’d promised them… I’d promised them protection. I was supposed to… There were children in those groups, Holmes. Families! Does that mean nothing to you?” Lestrade made to raise his gun, but Sherlock was quicker. Three moves of the simplest Gun Kata form and he was incapacitated, the cold metal of a semi-automatic pressed firmly against his chest. Sherlock tilted his head in question.

“Why should it?”

Not one of the Sense Offenders would be making it out alive---a decision made by the Council hours before their departure, and one that would still stand. Without hesitation, Sherlock raised the barrel of his gun to rest between Lestrade’s angry, frightened eyes and pulled the trigger.


	2. With Little Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes hadn't become the highest ranking Grammaton Cleric simply by chance. But his newest mission might be too much even for him.

It was nearly three weeks after the Museo D’Orsay case before another Resistance group worth infiltrating had been uncovered. All attempts to forgo his assignment of a new partner had been---as usual---denied, and within hours of Lestrade’s death, Sherlock was placed with Cleric prodigy James Moriarty, a younger man who seemed what some might consider overly enthusiastic about the partnership. Despite his daily injections, something Sherlock made a point of noticing at least for the first week, Moriarty seemed to make a blatant effort to grin or smirk at officials, rolling his eyes at them behind their backs, laughing when Sherlock made a comment that he considered “funny” and even going so far as to sigh in boredom on days without assignment. It was perplexing to say the least---Why bother with the mimicking of emotion in situations without benefit?---and probably would have been unnerving if Sherlock had the ability to be unnerved. Not to say the following three weeks were filled with frustration or exhaustion or anything of the like, considering the implications, but at the mention of a new case, Sherlock was almost, very nearly but not quite, something similar to glad. Most especially considering it would mean a much needed separation from his new partner.

The Resistance group under surveillance had crossed their radar countless times over the last two years, notorious for making untraceable relocations in hours and for not only uncovering various EC-10 items thought long lost, but hiding them in places even their most talented Scouts couldn’t trace. It was a promising case for Sherlock’s career, and even more of a challenge than he could have ever anticipated. This would be the deepest he’d ever had to delve into the mechanics of emotion, weave such a believable tale that he could convince even the head of the Tetragrammaton of his Sense Offense. Sherlock imagined he would be jumping for joy at the prospect, conveying all manner of excitement and happiness and eager expressions, were there more than just the numb, indifference of existence lingering beneath his skin.

He was ready to leave hardly an hour and a half after being assigned, his uniform neatly put away in exchange for a worn and faded pair of woolen trousers, a light blue, cotton button-up, and a dark green jacket made of a heavy, canvas material. It looked itchy and fit him poorly in places his uniform did not, so he opted to project someone slightly uncomfortable in his own skin, overtly nervous and untrusting, perhaps, unused to the sensations of ill-fitting clothing and scratchy fabrics or the general concept of being uneasy. So recently off his dose, then. Easy enough to portray. 

It had been a while since he’d attempted infiltration in his own face, usually donning prosthetics and wigs in order to prevent being recognized as a Cleric---he did his best to stay out of the limelight, but his efforts had been praised publicly on more than one occasion in his youth---but this time he felt the need to have a part of himself present. In some way it seemed to make the façade more impenetrable; a truth within the lie. He chose to leave his hair, though tucked under a dark grey flat-cap, and as unique as they were, he refrained from popping dark colored contacts into his eyes. A touch of makeup to add a sallowness to his already angular features, some grime to add realism, and he was set.

The current base was almost impossible to find, Sherlock going through two injections of Prozium before he finally managed to come across the heavily guarded entrance, a good two miles outside the radius of the expected location. Sherlock acknowledged with something not quite unlike frustration, the irreplaceable talent they’d lost in executing Lestrade. Careful to stow the rest of his doses and his guns just out of sight, where they would be well hidden and equally unnoticed, Sherlock literally stumbled up to the front guards, settling into his role with the ease of practice and skill.

The two men were heavily armed though Sherlock could tell by their posture and grip that neither had been technically trained. There was, however, a promise in their posture, as though someone had taught them about balance and stance. They were both dressed in long, heavy trench coats to combat the cold, almost identical in height, though it was obvious one was much younger than the other, his hands softer, less callused, most likely just recently allowed to join in the fighting. His partner, no, brother judging by the similar facial structure, had a variety of different sized scars on his hands and face, most likely from an explosion, and his eyes were filled with distrust and general weariness. He would be the one to convince.

“P-Please,” Sherlock coughed, clutching at his jacket as though it weren’t warm enough, assuming the temperature to be at least below freezing judging by the thickness of the guards’ clothing and the consistency with which their breath hit the air in puffs of white. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath of his own, allowing for a subtle chatter of teeth. “If there’s any room for the night…” He let the words trail off, let the men imagine their own stories for him and his reasons for being there, begging for shelter. If asked, he’d create a more than believe tale, but it was always best to let others create it for him is they were willing. The younger brother glanced towards the gate, already more than prepared to offer the warmth of their base to a passing stranger, but as expected, the older brother was distrustful enough for the both of them.

“I take it you’re not from around here, friend,” he sniffed. Sherlock analyzed the use of the word “friend,” determining it a vindictive and blatant sarcasm. Unlike some of Sherlock’s part experiences with Resistance groups, any new face was a potential threat in this camp. Wise man.

“No,” Sherlock frowned, taking on the face of a man pathetic and broken, a man with nowhere to go. “My home, I… I had nothing left after they…” Sherlock swallowed thickly, even going so far as to sniffle, just barely, before continuing, making sure there was a sufficient crack to his voice. “My wife was executed for Sense Offence three days ago. I don’t know why, but I stopped taking my dose, and now I can’t go back to work, I can’t keep living in that house, I just…” He swallowed again, giving the older brother a long, pleading look. “Please. It’s so cold.”

A look was exchanged from brother to brother before finally, the older of the two nodded in reluctant acceptance and handed his brother his gun. Without preamble, the guard walked up to Sherlock and began roughly patting down his arms and legs, checking, as expected, for weaponry, bugs, and Prozium. When the guard was satisfied, his brother unlocked the gate, opening up just enough space for Sherlock to pass through before relocking it at his back with a slam. 

The Resistance camp was located in an old warehouse building this time---predictable---and was near to bursting with life from what Sherlock could tell; the sounds of movement and distance speech, the occasional flicker of light from broken windows. It was clear right away that this group was far more elusive than they’d been led to assume; their ability to hide and move a number this presumably large was enough to have Sherlock questioning their intel. And wondering about whoever was in charge. This alone was already enough to impress. So to speak.

Sherlock was met almost instantly by another set of guards, this time a man and a woman, both obviously better trained in combat, though most of their skills seemed to have been gained in self-defense, ambushes. Their stances were tense, waiting for an attack, rather than loose and open to defend against one. Sherlock imagined most of the people here would have a similar demeanor. The woman, darker skinned and with a mess of unruly curls held tight behind her head, looked Sherlock up and down disapprovingly. Her partner, a disgruntled looking man with brown hair and uneven facial scruff, didn’t bother looking at him at all. 

“Name?” The woman asked. Her voice and teeth said smoker, a recent habit. Sherlock cleared his throat for her benefit.

“Williams.” He responded without hesitation. “Aaron Williams. I worked in the East side factory.” As expected, the male guard pulled a scanner from his pocket for Sherlock to press his thumb to, though it would prove fruitless, his print already redesigned to match his alias. A soft whirring and a high pitched beep later and the male guard nodded. Sherlock took that as his cue. “I just need a place to stay. I saw the guards outside and I just thought… I don’t know what else- where else to go, I-I don’t know how to be…” Sherlock broke himself off, chuckling what he had researched to be dejectedly, humorlessly. “I suppose I don’t know how to be,” he whispered, acting as though it was more to himself than to any warily listening guards. To punctuate the aside, he blinked at himself in mock surprise, looking back at them in the perfect reproduction of embarrassment. The two guards exchanged a look and the woman’s mouth tightened into a hard line Sherlock determined as suspicious, clearly unsure of his story but now unwilling to throw him back into the cold because of it. A counterproductive cycle of hesitancy and persistent morality. A testament to the burden of emotion. Sherlock could practically see the woman’s stress in the lines around her eyes, the tension in her shoulders.

“Follow me,” she said without preamble, not bothering to wait for him to respond before turning in the direction of the building’s side entrance. Sherlock glanced once more at the male guard, offering him a nervous smile and quick nod before scrambling to catch up. For security.

The inside of the warehouse appeared warmer, though Sherlock obviously detected no difference. The few people lingering in this side area were wearing thinner jackets, other layers discarded or being used to sit on. A few men glanced at him as he passed, all of them with a suspicion in their eyes to match that of his guide, until he was out of sight, the woman leading him around the corner and down a hallway, stopping in front of an unmarked door. The office of someone important, Sherlock figured. The guard knocked twice before stepping back and wrapping a strong hand around Sherlock’s upper arm. A precaution. Someone very important, then. Their leader, maybe?

“Come in,” an almost friendly, tenor voice echoed from inside the room, the guard reaching past him to open the door without ever letting go of his arm. Inside, there was a man sitting behind a half rusted, metal desk, his blond hair cropped short and his broad shoulders giving off an almost Cleric physique. This man was trained, more trained than any of the guards Sherlock had seen. Perhaps he was the one teaching them. His hands, as they rifled through papers, said familiar with Gun Kata, his posture, as he sat straight backed against the chair, said familiar with leadership, his eyes, as he finally looked up at their entrance, said honest man and liar, liberator and killer, gentleman and rogue, all manner of contradictions in those eyes. If Sherlock had the capacity to be stunned, those eyes had the power to inflict it. The man looked from Sherlock to the guard and said, “What do we have here?”

What, not who. It was guilty until proven innocent in this man’s Resistance. A man who’d been betrayed one time too many, possibly abandoned, possibly just protective of his own, possibly, possibly, possibly. Sherlock could read the life story of Sense Offenders and Clerics alike with just one look. Sherlock had been given several of this man, and the life story was still unfolding, so many layers, so many masks. It was like being handed a half-finished document, the rest of it in an ink that would only show up over time. Sherlock almost, just almost, wished he could feel the fascination this moment would have caused. The surprise and intrigue and thrill of the challenge that was this man. But it didn’t matter what Sherlock couldn’t feel. What mattered was what Aaron Williams would be feeling right now.

“New arrival. ID checks out. Still untested,” the guard said, grip on his arm still presumably tight. Sherlock looked away from them both in a perfect display of nervous intimidation.

“Thanks, Sally,” the man replied, getting to his feet. He was shorter than Sherlock had expected, shorter than his demeanor implied. “Let’s do that then, shall we?”

They walked Sherlock out the door---The man appeared to have some sort of limp. Past injury?---and down another length of hallway, eventually bringing him up to another unmarked door, this one open wide and leading into what appeared to be some sort of cell block, large expanses of room sectioned off by thick, metal bars. They were planning on locking him up, keeping him until the Prozium wore off, the most effective way to both reveal any imposters/traitors as well as condemn any officials who’d managed to sneak their way in. Like himself. Even if forced, a Grammaton Cleric having spent any amount of time as a Sense Offender would mean automatic dismissal. At least. Sherlock had faith enough in his abilities to be able to continue with the plan regardless, but it was an obstacle he preferred to avoid if at all possible. He had on his person only five individual doses of Prozium, hidden in his sock where the guard had overlooked on his way in. If his imprisonment lasted any longer than that, it would become quite an obstacle indeed.

“Put him in Cell Two,” the man instructed, Sally doing as told, pushing him inside an open cell and sliding the barred door shut, locking him in. Sherlock widened his eyes, let his mouth fall slightly open in panic.

“What are you doing?” He raised his voice a level to properly convey what he assumed an appropriate level of fear. “I didn’t mean you any trouble, I just wanted somewhere to stay, I… I don’t need to be locked up, I won’t bother anyone, I promise, please! I just didn’t know where else to go!”

“What’s his name?” The man asked Sally. Not asking Sherlock directly. That was hardly a good sign.

“Aaron Williams,” Sally replied. The man nodded, walking up to the bars and straightening his back, hands clasped behind him like a soldier. His limp seemed to ease when he wasn’t thinking about it. Psychosomatic, then. Most likely from a relatively recent and tragic experience. A raid on a previous Resistance group? An attack on his own?

“Hello, Aaron,” the man said, voice calm and maintaining the almost friendliness he’d heard first outside his office door. Though it was clear he didn’t consider them on equal footing---and wouldn’t until he was satisfied with Sherlock’s emotional standing---he still seemed genuinely cordial, as if Sherlock’s emotional comfort meant a great deal to him. “My name is John. Our locking you up is merely a precaution. Do you understand?”

Sherlock was certain he would have been rolling his eyes were he acting as himself. Aaron Williams, however, would not have picked up on the blatantly child-like treatment. Instead, he just nodded in agreement, forcing his eyes to well a bit with tears. “But isn’t there another test I can do? A lie detector or-”

“This is much more guaranteed.” John smiled, actually smiled, despite the assumed tension in the room. “Foolproof is necessary nowadays, Aaron. We can’t be taking chances. I’m sure you understand.”

Sherlock didn’t know if his most recent dose of Prozium was wearing off or if he was just too involved in the mechanics of his the situation, but Sherlock could practically feel the frustration. He’d long ago learned how to trick a lie detector into reading the nonexistent blips of emotion of his mind, heart, and sensationless body. That would have been the perfect method of avoiding all this, and John had side-stepped it without a thought. Which left Sherlock with his five self-injectors of Prozium and the hope that he’d be able to outlast this man’s test. Well, he said hope…

“We’ll be back with food in a few hours,” John offered when it seemed he’d proven his point; Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere, at least not tonight. “Do you need anything?” It was a test, but too obvious, so Sherlock simply grabbed a bar in each hand and shook his head, still maintaining a face on the verge of tears. John nodded and said a quick, “Let Sally here know if you change your mind,” before walking out of sight, Sally narrowing her eyes at him before doing the same. And then Sherlock was alone.

Just to be safe, he took that opportunity to quickly and silently inject himself with another dose, crushing the empty shell beneath his foot and hiding the shards of glass behind the small toilet in the corner of his cell. He had no more than forty-eight hours before he would run out of Prozium completely.


	3. Running Out Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes hadn't become the highest ranking Grammaton Cleric simply by chance. But his newest mission might be too much even for him.

They hadn’t come by with food after all---another test, Sherlock imagined---and it was a full eight hours of dreamless sleep and another four hours of silent waiting before anyone else even bothered to come by. The guard that had stood watch with Sally stopped just outside his cell, placing a tray of what looked like some sort of oatmeal on the floor in front of him. Before he could leave, Sherlock made a point of showing him his eagerness for food, all but colliding with the cell door in his haste to get to it. The bowl was too big to get inside, so he pulled it up to the bars and sat cross legged on the floor, reaching both arms through and raising the spoon to his lips a bit awkwardly.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked through his third mouthful, catching the man again before he had the chance to leave; displaying a need for human interaction. He glanced at Sherlock and frowned, as if wondering whether to answer. 

Finally, he seemed to give in, looking at the entrance to the cell block once before mumbling, “Anderson.”

“Thank you, Anderson,” Sherlock whispered, not looking at him at first, then raising his head enough to lock eyes, a blatant display of his rank here, his submissiveness. Anderson was hardly at the top of the food chain in this hierarchy, so playing on that notion with his own subordination could be highly beneficial. “For the food, I mean.” Sherlock looked down again, taking another bite into his mouth. “No one came last night.” Anderson didn’t say anything in reply, but he didn’t leave either, so Sherlock asked, in a softer tone, “Is this really necessary? I’m not looking to cause trouble, honest. Is that man… John… Is he just paranoid, or-?” Anderson ripped the bowl from his hands at that moment, cutting him off. Sherlock almost wasn’t quick enough to widen his eyes in surprise.

“You’re done,” Anderson spat, walking out of the cell block without another word. So this John was a beloved leader as well as an effective one. A single word against him had shifted the balance back from subordinate to prisoner. The story that was John just kept on surprising him. So to speak.

It was another full day before anyone else came by with food, this time, a younger woman than Sally, light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and face openly caring and friendly, if not a bit outwardly nervous. The slight discoloration on her fingers said chemist prior to joining the Resistance. Worked in the Prozium factories, then. Most likely East side, sent as a means of gathering a second opinion on his story. She worked with food now, judging by the scent of cooking oil lingering on her clothes, feeding the men, women, and children of John’s Resistance. She was a kind heart, easily manipulated.

“Am I being punished?” Sherlock asked, looking at the woman with sad, tired eyes. As expected, her face fell, her smile softening into one of comfort as she got to her knees.

“Of course not,” She soothed, lowering the tray down in front of his cell and reaching through the bars to place a hand on his shoulder. So trusting. If Sherlock’s mission had been one of a more violent means, she would have just ensured her death with that caring touch. It almost made Sherlock sick, her incompetence in the face of danger, even if Sherlock wasn’t portraying someone to be viewed as such. Sherlock felt his eyes widen a fraction all on their own. It was a genuine sickness, he realized, albeit distant and undefined, and the shock that followed it was equally as tangible. He needed another dose. The moment this girl stopped touching him and left, he needed another dose. But she just kept on looking at him with those doe eyes and that kind smile, trying to calm him, trying to prove their methods were in his best interest, and she still had her hand on his shoulder, not gripping tightly, but rather resting it in the juncture where shoulder met neck, and he could almost feel it, almost, almost, but not quite. “You’ll be out of here in no time, promise,” the girl gripped his shoulder just slightly before letting go. Sherlock felt a breath escape him that he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding, coming back to himself at once and wondering with a mental scolding what his face must have looked like. Thankfully, whatever had been written on it, this girl didn’t seem to notice, just got to her feet, said, “I’m Molly. If you need anything,” and left.

Sherlock waited for the sound of her footsteps to vanish beneath the hum of the general warehouse noises before pulling out his second to last injection and stabbing it into his neck, the quickest method of implementing the drug into his system. Within seconds of crushing the glass beneath his foot, any traces of whatever he’d been experiencing had all but been forgotten.

The next one to pay him a visit was John, and while it had been anticipated, Sherlock still hadn’t expected him so soon. It was obvious he was searching for information, getting various opinions on his emotional state, but Sherlock had assumed he’d send at least a few more people in to test him before gracing Sherlock with his own presence. Perhaps he’d proven himself more quickly than he thought, which was unlikely but beneficial if so. He had a single Prozium left, and no more than two hours before the use would become extremely necessary. His original plan had been simple: lie his way in, convince the Resistance leader of his Sense Offence, take up refuge for the night and part ways in the morning, stopping on the way back to the Council to retrieve his stashed Prozium and weaponry. He’d stocked individual injections enough for an extra thirty-six hours, just to be safe, but clearly he’d been overzealous, full of himself, if those phrases meant anything to the senseless. He’d envisioned a handful of scenarios and conclusions, thinking himself skillful enough to overcome any minor glitches therein. And yet, despite it all, he hadn’t prepared for this. Didn’t know how to combat this. And worse of all, he couldn’t manage to get a solid read on this John character. For all he knew, the man had come in here to have him executed.

Which somehow seemed even more likely when the man pulled up a chair from next to his cell and sat himself down in front of Sherlock with a smile. “Doing alright… Williams?” John’s smile shifted into a sort of half smirk, a humor in it that didn’t reach his eyes. Sherlock didn’t miss the fact that there’d been a pause before his name. Sherlock nodded, opting for silence. Let them create their own story. He’d chime in with counter-lies if need be. “Good,” John rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, settling his chin down on his intertwined fingers to give Sherlock a long look. “You see, we don’t mean for any of this-” He looked around the span of the cell block once before his eyes locked back on Sherlock’s. “-to be like torture. In fact, we’d prefer not to have to do this at all, but unfortunately, this is the world we live in, mate.” He leaned forward. “People can’t be trusted.”

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” Sherlock whispered, lacing his voice with exhaustion, doing his best to ignore how easy the sensation was to mimic. “But I promise I-”

“Oh good,” John leaned back in his chair, a look of relief on his face that it took far too long for Sherlock to realize was fake. “You promise. Well then, I suppose we’ll let you out right now then, yeah?”

“Please,” Sherlock tried once more, even going so far as to whisper a broken, desperate, “John…” And yet, despite this man’s caring and protective demeanor, he continued on as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. This was becoming a bit more than even Sherlock had bargained for. John was becoming a bit more than he’d bargained for.

“Do you know why we lock new arrivals in this cell… Aaron?” John asked, pausing briefly before his name again. He knew. Sherlock didn’t know how much he knew, but he knew something. “You already know about the detox of it, testing the authenticity of someone claiming Sense Offense, making sure all Prozium has left the body otherwise. But it’s more than that. You see,” John got to his feet then, walking up to the cell door with a steadfast confidence in his eyes. He seemed to be enjoying this on some level. No, that wasn’t it. The closer he got to the bars separating himself from Sherlock, the more at ease and controlled he became. He was enjoying the danger of this, the potential threat of it. His limp had all but vanished. John grabbed hold of one of the bars and leaned forward against it, looming over Sherlock from where he sat on the bed that lined the back wall. “This whole set up also does us the favor of keeping you locked up,” he shoved his free hand in his pocket, the contrast of assumed tension and casual demeanor leaving Sherlock almost but not quite unsettled. “Just in case your story doesn’t check out.” And there it was, the soldier, the killer, the liberator, the protector in those eyes, the eyes of a man doing his job and saving his people from the corruption and misinformation that was their government. That was the Grammaton Cleric. That was Sherlock. “Which it doesn’t.”

Sherlock willed himself not to break character; John hadn’t explained what he thought he knew yet. There was still the possibility of salvaging this mission. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock mumbled, holding John’s penetrating stare as though he couldn’t seem to look away. “Your guard… Anderson. He scanned my prints, you can ask him! I told you where I worked…” All things the Council had cleared for his alias weeks ago. “You know about my wife! Surely you could just look at my records or-!”

“You must have gone through a lot of trouble, setting up that backstory,” John cut him off. “Almost believed it too. You’re acting’s quite good. Best I’ve ever seen, actually. You almost had me believing in your Sense Offense, and that’s saying something.” John sat back down then, crossing an ankle over his knee and smirking. “I’m not easily fooled, Cleric.” Sherlock sat up straighter then, letting the mask of Aaron Williams fall from his face, off his shoulders---what a waste---waiting for John to explain how he knew. The man didn’t disappoint, eyes drilling into Sherlock, gauging every miniscule reaction, waiting to see if his imprisonment had already begun to take effect. “We have a regiment that we uphold here when it comes to new arrivals,” he went on. “Tedious and rudimentary, but effective all the same, especially for infiltrators like you.”

“And that might be?” Sherlock asked, voice the epitome of indifference and stoicism; his real voice. John smiled almost approvingly.

“A book, provided to us by outside sources and frequently updated, containing the identity of every known Grammaton Cleric employed by the Council.”

Sherlock frowned at that before he could stop himself. That sort of information was classified and heavily guarded, not to mention restricted from anyone outside of the Tetragrammaton and the Clerics themselves. Sherlock smoothed out his face before replying, “So I suppose this means I don’t need to formally introduce myself.”

John actually laughed then, throwing his head back and letting the sound bounce around the cell block in a way that was almost equal parts pleasant and chilling. Maybe Sherlock was running low on his Prozium again. When John’s laughter had settled, he looked back at Sherlock and said, “I’m almost flattered that a head Cleric like Sherlock Holmes would even bother with my little Resistance. I have to admit, I’m a bit disappointed we outted you so soon.”

“And I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting imprisonment as a means of verification. But my capture is irrelevant. The rest of my team are probably already on their way, as much as I would have preferred taking you down myself.” Sherlock replied, tilting his head a fraction. “Looks like we’re both a bit disappointed with how things turned out.”

“Are you now?” John grinned, resting his elbow back on his knee and his cheek on his hand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Am I what?”

“Disappointed.”

Sherlock frowned at the word---he hadn’t meant it like that, surely John was aware---realized he was frowning, and schooled his expression back into one of impassiveness. But John was quick, and clever, cleverer than Sherlock would have given him credit for in the beginning. It was clear he was thrilled with Sherlock’s slip ups, and enjoyed causing them even more so.

“I know you were searched when you got here,” John continued when it was obvious Sherlock wouldn’t be doing anymore talking. “But you won’t mind if I have Anderson give it another go, will you? I have a feeling we might have missed something.”

Without waiting for a response, Sally and another guard Sherlock didn’t recognize unlocked his cell and walked inside, taking each of his arms and holding them at an awkward angle behind his back, restraining him. Anderson wasted no time, running his hands along Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, down his arms, along his torso, around each leg, until finally, he made it to Sherlock’s left ankle, the single injection of Prozium just large enough to be noticeable beneath his sock. If Sherlock hadn’t recently taken a dose, he would have cursed at his misfortune. He had barely an hour and change left before he’d start to feel the effects of that missing injection.

Once Anderson was convinced that single shot was all he had on him, the guards released him, locked the cell door back into place, and left. John got to his feet as if to follow, but merely crossed his arms and gave Sherlock a look that seemed on the verge of sad. “I should kill you,” he whispered, almost as if to himself. “It would be the safest option. For everyone.” Sherlock didn’t miss the use of the word ‘should.’ John sighed, pulling a device out of his pocket and mumbling something into it that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out. Once he returned it to his pocket, John looked Sherlock up and down, seemingly analyzing him, picking him apart like Sherlock had done to so many, had used to break so many. “I think this’ll be good for you though.”

“You called for me, sir?” The girl named Molly suddenly appeared at John’s side, John’s smile going warm and fond.

“Do we have any more of that chocolate cake left from the raid last week?” He asked almost casually. Molly put a finger to her lips in thought and then smiled back.

“I think we do, actually.”

Sherlock didn’t bother wondering where they’d managed to get their hands on such an illegal EC-10 item. Chocolate had made the list for Emotional Content before Sherlock had even been born. John smiled wider, clapping a hand onto Molly’s shoulder in a way that looked borderline familial, at the very least intimate and casual. Like friends. “Fabulous. Ask Stamford to put a slice aside for Sherlock. And maybe see if he’ll make his famous Chicken Pot Pie for dinner tonight.”

Molly glanced at Sherlock and grinned, whispering, “Lucky boy,” in a way that was practically conspiratorial. Then, back at John, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Molls,” John waved her off, waiting until she was out of the cell block before looking back to Sherlock and adding, “His pot pies are to die for.”

“Your plan is juvenile,” Sherlock sniffed. 

John just shrugged. “You’d be surprised what a little good food can do for person,” he said, still smiling even as he turned towards the door, his voice laced with that smile. “We leave for a new base in the morning,” he added over his shoulder. “Figured your buddies would give us some trouble if we stayed.” And then he left.

Sherlock didn’t touch the food at first, determined not to play into John’s ploy, but that only brought attention to the hunger pains ravaging his stomach, an unfamiliar agony he couldn’t seem to ignore; it was difficult to decide which was worse. In the end, the pot pie wasn’t just delicious, it nearly brought him to tears in its brilliance. He decided not to eat the cake.

That night, for the first time in Sherlock Holmes’ life, he dreamt.


	4. What Dreams May Come

_The Gun Kata had been decidedly simple to learn, all mathematics and statistics, each placement of the arm in relation to the gun in relation to the curve of the wrist. Combine that with the location of the attacker or attackers, a variety of different scenarios all matched by the same equation, and it made for a fluid and well defined system even Sherlock could admire. Which he does. He admires the grace of it, the complexity of it, the simplicity of it, the weight of the guns in his hands, the movement of his body into each form. It makes him feel powerful and alive and-_

_That isn’t quite right at all, is it?_

_Sherlock stops mid-form, feeling the cold metal in his suddenly ungloved hands, feeling the soft, warm sand beneath his bare feet, a contrast that sends a shiver down his spine. He’s never stepped in sand before. How does he know what it feels like? How can he feel it at all?_

_“Sherlock,” a voice speaks at his back, one he doesn’t quite recognize. He spins around without thinking, arms tense and ready and fingers pull the trigger on that voice without a second thought. His brother’s face bursts into color, bright red on pale white, splatters of it along white walls, soaking into them, painting them, saturating them both with it. He’s drowning in those walls, in the remains of his brother’s too young face, the only face he remembers, painted in reds and blues and yellows and greens and colors Sherlock has only seen once before. A long time ago and recently and never._

_The room is musty and dimly lit but Sherlock can see it all, every shade, can hear every shout of his name from between brush strokes, swirling colors and lines and they’re beautiful. Even as they burn, they’re beautiful, and it hurts to watch, hurts to breathe. He reaches out to grab, fingers searching for any of them, any one, and he feels hands on his shoulders, pulling him out of the fire, flames licking his skin in golds and reds and he’s covered in burnt paint, dripping with it, smelling of it, thick and heady. And he doesn’t want to leave but he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t understand why everything hurts and is beautiful and ugly and painful, painful, painful. So he tightens his hands around his guns, keeps himself grounded with them, and fires round after round at invisible hands, each bullet crackling and fizzing in the air as it explodes._

_Until John’s staring down the barrel of it, grabbing Sherlock’s arm with warm, soft, gentle fingers and resting the nozzle of it deep into the center of his chest, breaking himself open with it, John’s chest folding in around Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock can’t pull away, can’t pull away, wants to, doesn’t want to, can’t think, it hurts, it needs to stop hurting. He pulls the trigger._

Sherlock wrenched himself upright with a start. He was panting, sweaty, and it felt as though his heart was threatening to rip itself through his ribcage. He tried to take a deep breath, but it was shaky and painful and his exhale sounded almost like a sob, so he contorted in on himself instead, willing his body to obey him as it always had. It didn’t. He covered his ears with his hands and let himself rock back and forth, back and forth on the sweat soaked bed, but all that did was alert him to the fact that he could hear his own blood thrumming in his ears, could feel every heartbeat like a strike to his chest. He was having a heart attack. He had to be. Sherlock lurched to his feet, swaying under the panic, nearly dizzy with it, and all but collided with the toilet, stumbling to his knees and grabbing at the cool, cracked porcelain in an attempt to catch himself. The chill felt good against his overheated hands and face, better than good, soothing and nice. Oh God, it felt _nice._

Sherlock backed away from the toilet until he was pressed into the corner between the bars of his cell and the wall. He needed it to stop. He desperately, irrevocably needed it to stop, and for never having wanted anything in his life, _needing_ something was like suffocating, like drowning. He was drowning in the chatter of his teeth and the scratchiness of his throat and the feeling of his clothes still sticking like a layer of filth to his skin. He was drowning in the lot of it, the panic of that knowledge only making it worse, and he didn’t know what to do, how to end it, how to escape from that damn bu-dum bu-dum bu-dum of his erratic and racing heartbeat, until suddenly: flash of pain, unexpected high, overwhelming relief only just muffled by the throbbing ache in his hand.

It took him a good two seconds to realize he’d punched the wall. And a good five seconds after that to register the opening of his cell door and the presence of someone kneeling next to him, muttering something, asking him something as he went to grab at Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock jerked his hand back with a hiss, this time the added pain only focusing the situation rather than muting it. John frowned at him, grabbing at his wrist again, this time not letting go despite Sherlock’s continued grunts of pain.

“I’ve seen people react to Prozium detox violently, but I’ve never seen someone try to break their own hand before. Well done,” John clicked his teeth, grabbing the device from the day before out of his pocket and murmuring into it, something about first aide, Sherlock noticed absently, not quite back to full coherency yet. Damn it all.

“I haven’t broken my hand,” Sherlock huffed through gritted teeth. He knew broken bones, had mastered the delicate art of it; he knew the difference between a break and a fracture. For some reason, John smirked.

“I said ‘try’ didn’t I?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, realized the expression as it was leaving his face, and frowned, which only made him more frustrated. It was a vicious cycle, this involuntary display of human emotion, and Sherlock didn’t want any part of it. But he had no way of stopping it without his Prozium, and that ship had long since sailed. He was at John’s mercy now, the thought making something hot and uncomfortable coil into existence at the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.

“You didn’t eat your cake,” John said abruptly, seemingly just noticing the tray sitting outside the cell. Sherlock didn’t bother commenting on it and thankfully didn’t need to, a man in a thick, black jacket running into the cell block at that moment in perfect interruption. He dropped a first aide kit in front of Sherlock’s cell before running off again, obviously preoccupied with something far more important than Sherlock’s self-inflicted injury. The silence lingered. Sherlock sensed that John didn’t need an explanation on the cake anyway. He knew.

John bandaged his hand with the sort of ease that only came with practice, and not just from mending the beaten and broken after raids. “You were a doctor,” Sherlock said without thinking.

“Like to think I still am,” John replied offhandedly. 

“I mean before. Before you became a Sense Offender,” Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Why did he keep doing that? John didn’t reply, so Sherlock kept talking. Somehow, talking kept him grounded, and picking apart the details in people kept him sane, like cataloguing his suddenly restless and chaotic thoughts. “Your hands are always clean, despite the rarity of hand soaps in the Nether, so cognizant of your own health and the necessity of clean hands for treating patients. Doctor. Combine that with your obviously protective demeanor and your eye for pinpointing the severity of injuries and I’d go so far as to say surgeon. But you’re more than that. Medical men don’t learn Gun Kata. That’s a skill specific to Clerics, and yet I don’t remember seeing your face in our database. So you were taught after your Sense Offense. But why? Another rebellion? Ah. That slight twitch in your left eyebrow just then says yes. So then you were taught young. Despite the reputation of your Resistance, you’re name has specifically never come up on our radar. Now the only question remains is who taught you?”

John had stopped working on his injury at one point, hands freezing mid-wrap and eyes locked wide on Sherlock as he talked. When Sherlock finally went silent, John could only whisper, “But how did you know that I-?”

To which Sherlock interrupted with an irritated sigh, “I didn’t know. I saw.”

John’s mouth, which until that point had been left slack jawed by Sherlock’s speech, morphed into a rather likeable--- _Likeable…?_ \---grin. “Amazing.” He whispered, more to himself than to anyone, but before Sherlock could respond in kind, the same someone that had dropped off the first aide kit came running back in with news of their immediate departure. John finished bandaging Sherlock’s hand without further conversation and got to his feet, motioning for Black Jacket and someone Sherlock couldn’t see to help him up and prepare him for travel. Or rather, apprehend him for travel.

It wasn’t until Sherlock had been cuffed---thankfully at the front---and linked via chain to one of the other guards, that they finally removed him from the cell, pulling him out of the cell block and into a large room filled with an almost obscene amount of people. Men, women, children, elderly, everyone grouped off and at the tail end of packing for what must be their umpteenth move. Sherlock wondered briefly how often they were forced to do so, and how long they would have been here if Sherlock hadn’t showed up.

Not that it mattered. None of it mattered. Except that it did for some reason, and wasn’t that just hateful.

John walked him towards a small crowd of people set to leave in the first group, instructing him to wait there while John took care of some last minute preparations. He made sure to warn him that Anderson would be keeping an eye out. Sherlock tried not to scoff. Tried incredibly hard, actually, but it seemed to slip out all on its own, Anderson’s face contorting in disgust as his hand tightened on the gun strapped to his hip. Sherlock rolled his eyes---Goddammit, _again?_ \---and decided not to waste the energy it would take to consciously hold back that particular reaction from here on out. It seemed to be almost involuntary in his Prozium-less state.

As John walked away, Sherlock took the opportunity to gather intel, asses his situation. And more importantly, the possibility of his own escape. With his hands cuffed at the front, he could accomplish at least half of the basic Gun Kata techniques, could disarm and immobilize Anderson with a quarter of them---maybe an eighth---and would probably only have to deal with neutralizing a tenth of the surrounding Offenders before managing escape. It wasn’t the most subtle of plans, but twenty-four hours off Prozium was enough; he wasn’t going to suffer any more if he could help it.

Sherlock watched in faux indifference as Anderson fiddled with his gun. The strap was poorly crafted leather, a makeshift holster that was barely functional let alone durable. One good twist and tug would have the gun snapping free. Easy. The man had little fighting experience, that much was simple enough to tell from his stance and his grip. He was also severely affected by his emotions, more so than most Sense Offenders, it seemed, despite what appeared to be a relatively decent length off his dose. His ability to defend himself would be significantly diminished were he to become otherwise distracted by his own anger and insecurities. Also easy.

Sherlock opened his mouth to begin the onslaught of accurately observed faults when something small and orange darted towards him, latching itself onto his leg before attempting a rather pathetic attempt at a climb. Sherlock almost stumbled, hands coming up to his chest and legs parting in a defensive stance of the Gun Kata in the instance before he realized what it was.

The kitten couldn’t have been more than six months old judging by its size and the awkward way in which it attempted to maneuver itself first up then around Sherlock’s leg. When it realized its attempts were too advantageous, it began circling Sherlock’s feet, rubbing itself against his ankles with the length of each side. It took a poorly concealed snort from Anderson before Sherlock even realized his hands were still up, a look on his face that Anderson must have found amusing, and one he instantly schooled back into indifference.

Sherlock reached down to pick up the kitten without a word, fully intending to thrust the animal into Anderson’s chest and force him to deal with its existence, but the feel of it in his hands caught him off guard. The kitten was soft. Which, on any other given day wouldn’t have made much of an impact, but Sherlock was barely more than a day off his dose, and for all intents and purposes, he’d never felt “soft” before. He found himself spreading a hand through the fur to feel it between his fingers. The kitten began to purr, the vibration of it spreading through his palm and up to his fingertips. The creature was surprisingly warm for something so small, something so soft, something so-

“Mimi? Mimi?” A little voice broke him out of his reverie, his hands stilling on the kitten’s head where he’d been absently petting. “Mimi!” The voice shouted suddenly, accompanied by a little girl pushing her way through the crowd and bounding up to Sherlock in excitement. “You found Mimi!” She beamed, her smile stretching across her features in a way that was so natural, it was impossible to deny she’d been born in the Nether. She couldn’t have been any older than seven, with long, black curls tied into a messy knot behind her head. “She ran off,” the girl practically tutted, crossing her arms for a moment before looking big blue eyes up at Sherlock and reaching a hand in the kitten’s direction, the smile back with renewed vigor. 

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by how quickly she managed to traverse each emotion without getting jammed. Carefully, he lowered the kitten to her level, expecting her to take it away. Instead, she merely began petting the small creature happily, leaving the kitten to rest lazily in his palms, both child and animal perfectly content where they were. It made no sense. And the stutter his heart gave made even less.

“She likes you,” the child said confidently, almost proudly. “She doesn’t like most people, but she likes you plenty. I can tell.”

Sherlock felt like he was supposed to say something, felt like the child was waiting for it, but no words would come. Thankfully, she seemed content to do enough talking for the both of them.

“She used to have a brother back before when we used to live at that other place with the rolley beds. I got to name him because Jenna got to name Mimi, so I chose Tucker because he used to tuck himself into my arm when we went to sleep. We had to leave Tucker behind because he got sick and daddy said traveling would only make him worse,” she explained as though it was a terrible heartache, though Sherlock couldn’t seem to make sense of why. It was only a cat. And yet, when he thought of the sibling to the creature in his hands, probably not curable, probably left behind at their last camp to die, Sherlock couldn’t hold back the stab of empathy he felt for the child, the small burst of heartache he felt for the deceased cat. He almost passed the cat off to the girl then and there, suddenly desperate to get away from it, but with the way the girl continued to pet it, he was concerned he’d damage it were he to force it into her hands.

“What group are you in?” The girl managed to sufficiently yank his attention back to her once again. She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Daddy says we’re in the group that leaves in the morning. Bright and early, he said.” She seemed overjoyed by this fact. “I hope it’s after breakfast. Miss Molly promised me real butter on my toast. With jam!” The girl leaned in close, one hand still petting at the kitten while the other came up to cup her mouth as she whispered almost conspiratorially. “She always gives me a cookie on Fridays after dinner. And on my birthday, I get a slice of cake!” She backed away with a smile that appeared almost smug. Sherlock remembered the slice of cake he’d avoided the night before and felt almost guilty. Almost. “So what’s your name anyway?”

Sherlock found himself struggling to keep up, his first inclination---the one he’d trained himself to be automatic---was to reply with Aaron, but lying to the girl seemed both pointless and unnecessarily spiteful, somehow. So, with a brief glance at Anderson---the man was still eyeing him warily, though with a hint more amusement than Sherlock liked---Sherlock lowered himself to his knees so that he’d be eye level with the child. Why it had seemed like the appropriate method of continuing the conversation, Sherlock didn’t know. He also didn’t know why he was still holding the bloody cat, though, so he decided to power on regardless.

“Sherlock,” he said, voice tight and a bit awkward. The girl tilted her head at him.

“That’s a funny name.” She said as though it was simply a statement of fact, not an insult. Sherlock felt strangely defensive, nearly rising to his feet again were it not for the way the girl added, “I like it. I’m Rachel.” She paused, as though waiting for him to comment on her name, but Sherlock just stared at her, not quite sure what to say or how to continue. Luckily, an older, male voice began calling her name, Rachel’s eyes flickering between Sherlock and the summons reluctantly. Finally, she let out a dramatic sigh, petting Mimi once more before saying, “That’s daddy. I have to go, but I’ll see you later, okay?” She turned to leave and Sherlock got back to his feet, content to watch her go. Until he realized he was still holding the kitten.

“You didn’t-! Your cat!” he called out, and Rachel turned back around, skipping towards him.

“You can take care of her for a while, if you want.” She said, petting Mimi behind the ears. “You two get along real well and she keeps running away from me while we’re packing. You’ll take good care of her for me, yeah? Until tomorrow?” Sherlock wasn’t given the chance to respond, the kitten suddenly feeling very small in his hands as the girl pulled away and ran off towards another of her father’s persistent shouts.

“But I don’t want it!” Sherlock tried to call after her. “Take it back!” He even went as far as to hold his hands out towards where the girl had disappeared, the cat lounging lazily in his palms, tail tucked between his fingers. He almost considered going after her, but one look at Anderson proved that to be more trouble than it would be worth; the man looked like he was waiting for any opportunity to shoot him down, and Sherlock was in no mood to fight off an imbecile and protect a cat at the same time. So Sherlock pulled the kitten back into his chest hesitantly, wrinkling his nose at it. It didn’t seem to care, stretching languorously before seemingly, instantly falling sleep in his awkwardly cupped hands. His thumb was starting to cramp. Now what was he supposed to do?

“Looks like you made a friend,” John appeared at his side without warning, a smirk lining his lips that Sherlock felt instantly conflicted about. It insulted him and perturbed him and yet he couldn’t deny the way it made John’s face seem more attractive, easy to look at, stare at. Ogle at, apparently. So Sherlock forced himself to look away at once, locking his eyes---with every ounce of focus he owned---on the orange tufts of fur along the kitten’s back. She had flecks of brown and red and white littered among the light coppery hue. Fascinating. Though, unfortunately, not nearly as fascinating as his body’s reaction when John leaned in to pet the cat from head to tail, hand brushing Sherlock’s with a distracted sort of pause. The calluses on his fingers were rough but his touch was gentle, and when John’s shoulder brushed against Sherlock’s as well, the body heat that radiated between them felt gentle too, present and comforting. And also something else. Something not so gentle. Sherlock swallowed, overwhelmed.

“A child left it in my care,” Sherlock finally forced himself to say. John nodded, smile knowing.

“Rachel,” he said, finally pulling back enough for Sherlock to breathe. Though how the proximity of another, perfectly ordinary human being could in any way affect the lungs’ ability to perform, Sherlock didn’t understand. He knew it was illogical, and yet it was happening anyway. How did people function without Prozium? It was abhorrent! And exhausting.

“I’m sure you’ll take good care of her,” John said with a final stroke between the cat’s ears, before walking a number of feet away to converse silently with someone in full protective gear, an eye on Sherlock but his attention elsewhere. Before he left completely, however, he made sure to add, “I’m sure she’ll make great company to you on the ride over.”

As expected from the statement, and the general assumption of anyone with Sherlock’s deductive skills, the ride---in which they carried many men, women, and children in Grammaton approved vehicles; clever---was both long and arduous. The cat rested in Sherlock’s lap like an anchor, giving him both something else to focus on as well as a sort of psychological companion, something Sherlock was hardly forwardly thankful for. And yet, the cat arched against his hand, rubbed its head against his open palm like a comforting friend, a balm Sherlock knew neither how to interpret or how to accept. So, instead, he merely let the cat shift and settle and eventually sleep, keeping his hand still atop its head.

They arrived at their newest destination exactly six hours and forty-three minutes later. The surrounding area was just as desolate as the rest of the Nether, the schoolhouse looming over them in broken and time-worn shambles. Their new “home” for the indefinite future, it seemed.

As expected, two of John’s men corralled him out of the car, shoving him past the Schoolhouse entrance and into a back room---cleared out laboratory?---as soon as they arrived. They locked the door behind themselves and that was that. Once again, Sherlock was left alone with his thoughts. And feelings. It was strange to have to voluntarily separate such things, to force his mind to work apart from the tedious notions of emotional distraction. Dull. Aggravating. Frustrating. A vicious cycle of new sensations he neither wanted nor accepted. 

The cat at his heels, Sherlock took to pacing the length of the lab, deducing where each bit of equipment had once stood before removed or lost. What once might have been a respectable laboratory was now his prison cell. It seemed almost poetic.

It wasn’t until Sherlock had categorized every chemical stain on the cement walls that someone finally returned. Anderson this time, two rather larger, imbecilic looking men in tow. He walked haughtily through the lab door and gestured from them to Sherlock and back in quick succession. It didn’t take a genius to foresee the oncoming assault. Even Mimi bolted out of sight as if in nervous anticipation, peeking her head out from beneath a desk to watch.

Each man took hold of an arm, Sherlock grunting involuntarily at the uncomfortable pressure as they pulled him back and restrained him. Anderson nodded once, eyes locked on Sherlock’s with a fierce glare, before punching him square across the jaw.

He saw stars, felt the pain on a surprising delay. His tongue darted out involuntarily, licking at the coppery sting of his newly busted lip. Sherlock glanced up at Anderson and raised an eyebrow, willing his features otherwise blank, detached but inquiring. That just seemed to piss the man off more, another swing of his fist connecting higher on Sherlock’s face, his cheekbone alighting in fresh pain. There would no doubt be a bruise forming below his eye in minutes.

“I was sent in here to tell you not to get comfortable,” Anderson hissed after a moment, seemingly debating on whether or not to punch Sherlock one more time. Sherlock cleared his throat, spitting out a mouthful of blood before speaking.

“You’ve no doubt assured that, I think.”

Anderson rolled his eyes, hands still balled into fists at his side. His whole body had grown tense, a hair trigger away from striking again. When the silence had stretched on long enough to be uncomfortable, Anderson huffed out a sharp breath to break it. “We head out on thirty,” was all he said before flicking his gaze towards the men still holding firm to Sherlock’s arms. They released him, Sherlock falling rather ungracefully to the floor as they stalked past, Anderson throwing Sherlock one last glare before slamming and relocking the lab door.

Sherlock stayed where he was for a moment, raising a hand to the throbbing area beneath his eye and wincing at the tenderness there. They were leaving again, no more than a few hours after arriving. That could only mean one thing. Sherlock tried not to smirk, smothering the swell of smug pride that rushed through him at the realization.

_They tracked me. And easily at that. It won’t be long now._

They must have arrived at their last location no more than an hour ago, just long enough for someone to send word to John. Even if they managed a new destination within the hour, it was highly unlikely the Grammaton Clerics assigned his retrieval wouldn’t be able to maintain a consistent pinpoint on his location. Given the circumstances, they’d surely lessen the punishment and-

Mimi’s presence in the form of a paw batting impatiently against his hand silenced all thoughts of rescue, her little head nudging against it when he froze. All at once, the situation settled in around him, blatant and unforgiving and suffocating.

_Rachel…_

Mimi shoved her head beneath Sherlock’s hand, eager for a scratch behind the ears, but his fingers wouldn’t move. Tomorrow morning, she’d said. Bright and early. They’d have still been there, unable to defend themselves, wiped out like cattle. Sherlock felt his stomach drop at the thought. Surely the life of a child, regardless of her innocence, shouldn’t matter. Surely, despite her ignorance, her Sense Offense was of the highest and most blasphemous, born to it and raised by it, not a touch of Prozium in her system. Her death was merited. Earned. And yet.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet. 

 

When the door to the lab finally opened again, it wasn’t a new entourage to escort Sherlock back into the lineup like he’d expected. It was John, eyes tired and heavy, distracted but determined. Sherlock tried not to be effected by his presence and failed.

John didn’t say anything at first, just stood in the doorway, waiting. Sherlock was seated on the floor beneath the cracked and graffitied chalkboard, Mimi asleep in his lap, her soft purring the only sound in the otherwise tense and overwhelming silence. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on her instead, forcing himself to ignore John’s gaze as best he could. That an intangible force such as another man’s stare could leave an almost physical weight was preposterous. And yet he could feel John’s eyes on him like an actual touch, snaking across his skin and settling heavy and buzzing against the back of his neck.

“I came for the cat,” John whispered at last, the sound of his voice sparking something else underneath Sherlock’s skin. Something dangerous and demanding to be felt, analyzed, explored. So he smothered it viciously. His hand came to rest atop Mimi’s head, the softer fur along her jaw rubbing lazily against his palm. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak, just looked at her, so tiny and fragile and alone now. He had to consciously keep himself from petting her some more, his chest aching against resilient, half formed thoughts.

“Unless you want to keep her,” John added suddenly, voice soft in an entirely different way, so much so that Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from looking up at him in stunned confusion. John’s smile was sad, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face as if he could see every emotion battling for recognition underneath the surface. Maybe he could.

“Why would I want to keep her?” Sherlock heard himself ask, half stubborn and half genuinely confused. What use would he have for a small, abandoned animal? Something in John’s gaze shifted, gone before Sherlock could analyze it further.

“I didn’t say you did,” he shrugged, walking up to Sherlock and kneeling at his side. When he reached out to remove the cat from Sherlock’s lap, something stuttered uncomfortably beneath Sherlock’s ribs, what little warmth and weight she’d had been sharing with him vanishing at once. John got back to his feet and Sherlock watched him, schooling his features blank and mentally reeling at the effort it took to do so.

John didn’t say much after that beyond a reiteration of their departure time, cradling the cat in one hand as he left. Sherlock tried not to feel betrayed by the way Mimi settled against him comfortably, pawing at his chin for attention. 

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur, men he had yet to meet coming to gather Sherlock for travel and dropping him off once they arrived, much like before, in his new prison cell. This one was a sectioned off dead end in a surplus of tunnels already seemingly built to sustain life. A literal Underground where it was obvious multiple Resistance groups had stayed in the past. It would be harder to find, considering the path they’d taken, the route below heavily guarded and difficult to locate without prior knowledge of its location. John was a clever man.

Food was brought at one point, which Sherlock ignored, and eventually, the artificial lights over his cell flickered and died. He tried not to scoff at the idea of them enforcing a curfew on him, instead waiting for his eyes to adjust to the oppressive darkness. 

There was painfully little to occupy his mind while imprisoned, his meager quarters already catalogued and explored ten times over before lights out. Still, despite his lack of options, Sherlock found himself hesitant to attempt sleep, his mind too wired, thoughts a racing blur against the backdrop of darkness. His first experience with a Prozium-less, dream-filled sleep had also been far from pleasant. But after the first few hours, it was obvious there was nothing for him to do but close his eyes and wait for morning. He didn’t even register the transition into unconsciousness until it was too late.

_“Sherlock.”_

_The darkness is too thick, difficult to move through, wrapping around ankles and wrists and slowing down his movements, his reaction time._

_“That’s a funny name.”_

_The voice is distant, echoed along a corridor that Sherlock remembers but doesn’t, the darkness dripping from his clothes, keeping him weighted, distracted, slow. Stupid._

_“Where’s Mimi?”_

_Something small and fluffy darts past his foot, nearly tripping him. Sherlock becomes strangely lucid at this point, the sensation of dreaming settling like a second layer over his skin. And yet, even with this knowledge, he finds the desire to follow Mimi, or at least this dream version of her, almost overwhelming. So Sherlock takes off in a run in the direction he saw her disappear._

_“On my birthdays I get a slice of cake!”_

_The voice, distinctly Rachel’s now, is much closer, but still out of reach. Paw prints dark and wet on cold cement leave a trail for Sherlock to follow._

_“Would you like some?”_

_Sherlock sees Mimi, sitting no more than three feet away, licking at her paw, but the bars of his cell are blocking the way, keeping him in place._

_“Mimi always sneaks a bite, but I don’t mind. You should try some, Cleric.”_

_Sherlock looks down at his feet, at the godforsaken piece of confection he’d ignored his first night. It’s half eaten and molding, the smell of it both sweet and bitter. He kicks it away, listening with a twisted sort of pleasure as the plate shatters._

_“I came for the cat,” John’s says from the other side of the bars, Mimi already in his arms, her wet paws marking John’s shirt with dark splotches. “Unless you want to keep her.”_

_“The child left it in my care,” Sherlock hears himself say as if from faraway, the voice alien and broken, pleading._

_“What child?”_

_As if drawn to it, Sherlock’s focus shifts over John’s shoulder where Mimi had been sitting, at the body lying slumped and deformed in a growing pool of dark liquid. Sherlock’s heart begins to race, hammering loudly in his ears, as he returns his gaze to Mimi and John, the splotches on his shirt staining a deep crimson._

_“There is no child, Sherlock,” John sighs, turning away. “Not anymore.”_

_Sherlock tries to call out, tries to scream for John to come back, but he’s already faded into the background, the darkness swallowing up him and Mimi and Rachel’s bloody corpse, leaving Sherlock lost and blind and alone. So alone. He tries to scream but no sound will come out._

_Wake up._

_Sherlock closes his eyes, shaking his head, fingers digging almost painfully into his scalp._

_Wake up. Wake up. Wake up._

_He tries to scream again, the plea echoing loudly in his head but never making it past his throat, his lips sewn together, his eyes stapled shut._

_Wake up! Wake up!_

“Sherlock! Wake up!” 

Sherlock jerked back into full consciousness at once, his mind latching on to the feel of a hand on his shoulder, another pressed against his chest. Reacting on instinct, he used his attacker’s own force against him and sent them both tumbling to the floor. As expected, the man fought back, obvious skill keeping Sherlock from fully incapacitating him, but even so, Sherlock was better trained. It took little more than a well-timed elbow to the man’s temple as distraction before Sherlock was on top of him, a hand wrapped tightly around his throat. Only then, once his faculties had caught up to the situation, once he was both awake _and_ alert, did Sherlock finally process who he was straddling, whose throat was currently convulsing beneath his grip.

“John…” Sherlock gasped, loosening his grip, though for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to remove it entirely. The feel of John’s pulse beneath his fingers was distracting. The way his Adam’s Apple bobbed when he swallowed even more so.

“You were screaming,” John said by way of explanation. He didn’t seem all that concerned that Sherlock wasn’t removing himself, their bodies pressed tight and close, panting breaths hot on each other’s faces. “Another nightmare, then?” 

Sherlock frowned, his dream already fuzzy but the feelings it left behind still fresh. He closed his eyes. For a long moment they stayed that way, silent and unmoving, Sherlock’s hand wrapped loosely around John’s throat. Then, as if without his consent, Sherlock whispered, “Why does it matter?”

John shifted underneath him, Sherlock’s eyes snapping open. The look John gave him was knowing, empathetic, and Sherlock despised it. When it looked like John was about to say something, something Sherlock had no desire to hear, Sherlock slammed his hand down to the right of John’s head, the slap of flesh on concrete loud and sharp, his whole body vibrating with it. 

“Why does it matter?!” He shouted into John’s face, hating the raw edge to his voice, the desperation to understand obvious to his own ears. 

Too quick for Sherlock to evade, John flipped them both over, pinning Sherlock beneath him now, clasping his hands above his head by the wrists. The energy shifted a fraction, John’s face mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s, their breaths mingling as the renewed silence stretched on. This time, when John shifted, it was accompanied by a rush of heat the swirled and distracted and left Sherlock dizzy, confused. Eyes blown wide, John licked his lips, and for a split second, Sherlock thought he was going to kiss him. But instead, to Sherlock’s bemused disappointment, John merely released Sherlock’s wrists and pushed himself to his feet.

John was already to the door of his cell before Sherlock spoke again, the words pained and awful and just as confusing as whatever had just happened. Still, he couldn’t stop them from falling past his lips in a dreadfully strained whisper.

“Why does it matter?”

John didn’t turn around, just came to a stop and answered, “Because it should,” before walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who might still be following this, my sincerest apologies for taking so long with this update. Your comments and kudos are the reason I managed to get this out at all. Hopefully the sheer length of this chapter made up for it at least a little bit. 
> 
> My life's been turned pretty much upside down over the last six months and it's forced my priorities in a less than ideal direction... But hopefully I'm getting back on track! I'll try to be more scheduled with the next updates, my friends. I have quite a bit planned for our boys!


	5. Standing Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd and not even mildly Brit-picked. I figure since the world of Equilibrium is potentially nationless, it shouldn't matter as much. This is a bit of filler, but it's necessary for the next chapter. Which may or may not be very important for Johnlock fans ^_~

He’d spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about Rachel and John and Mimi and John and everything and nothing and John some more. And then, as if torturing him, his thoughts floated back farther than he expected, following its own course of misery to his old partner, Lestrade’s final words running on repeat in the back of his mind.

_“I’d promised them… I’d promised them protection. I was supposed to… There were children in those groups, Holmes. Families! Does that mean nothing to you?”_

_“Why should it?”_

Those words had been second nature to him, then. Automatic. Even now, he could see the value of the question. 

Why should it? Why should the lives of Sense Offenders mean anything to a Cleric?

The answer was simple: they shouldn’t. And yet, undeniably, aggravatingly, they did. They meant more than even he had the mind to understand, and that bothered him above all else.

Well. Almost.

Twice, he closed his eyes that night. He remembered it vividly. Because twice he also jerked himself out of semi-consciousness, heart racing and mind rebelling against the prospect of sleep. He was no child. Not that children dreamt anymore, but he knew the difference between the visual ramblings of the unconscious and reality. And yet… The very thought of succumbing to the gruesome images of his subconscious mind was unnerving, almost frightening, not that he’d admit it aloud. So he did the next best thing.

For the following three nights, Sherlock Holmes didn’t sleep at all.

It was surprisingly simple to manage, and even knowing the logic of sleep’s necessity, he found he could still function at almost full capacity without it. Though, with more hours in a day spent mindlessly pacing his cell, he found himself facing a much more perilous obstacle.

“Bored!” He shouted, not quite knowing why he felt the need to voice such a thing but feeling slightly better upon doing so. Which led him to do it again and again and again until his voice was hoarse and his throat was sore and every breakable object within his reach had been reduced to shards, scraps, or dust.

He hadn’t accounted for this, hadn’t planned for the possibility of what his mind might be like off Prozium. Sure, he’d mentally prepared himself for the onslaught of emotion, if only at an analytical level, but this? This was a torture he hadn’t anticipated. This was the chaos before true madness. This was like being strapped to a chair while adrenaline coursed through his veins. This was like witnessing his brain decomposing, his intellect shriveling up under the lack of stimulation. It was a new kind of pain, an unexpected sort of torment. So much so, that when someone new came to deliver his food that morning, it took him under a second to latch onto the new information, ripping apart the woman with deduction after deduction like an animal starved for sustenance. She left the cell in tears and someone else delivered his dinner. Someone rather unexpected.

“Molly…” Sherlock whispered in shock from where he sat in the corner of his cell, the name drifting from the recesses of his memory like a burden. She didn’t look at him, merely set down his tray and began to walk away. Before Sherlock knew what he was doing, he was getting to his feet and walking up to the bars at the edge of his cell. Molly reacted as any Sense Offender would, her eyes widening, her lips parting, her left foot pulling her whole body back a step in unconscious self-preservation.

It hadn’t even occurred to him until that moment, hadn’t even registered as a tangible thought until seeing her face. But he couldn’t deny it, not when the rush of surprised relief was still fluttering against his chest.

 _“Daddy says we’re in the group that leaves in the morning.”_

_“I hope it’s after breakfast. Miss Molly promised me real butter on my toast.”_

“You’re-” Sherlock almost said, stopped himself at the last second. Because he might be forced to endure these unrestricted, insuppressible emotions, but he didn’t have to be redundant while doing so.

It took Molly a moment, but even in her shock, she still managed to catch on, her eyes softening and her lips closing into a subtle, unsure smile. Aggravating.

“I was in the second group,” she explained. “We made it out right before.” There was no need to explain what she meant.

An awkward, uncomfortable silence followed after that, brought upon by an unsure timid-ness on Molly’s part and a stubborn refusal of acceptance on Sherlock’s. There was no reason he should be thankful this woman, for all intents and purposes a stranger, was alive. She had no meaning, no value to him. She brought him a slice of chocolate cake once. That was hardly cause to-

“You haven’t been eating,” Molly finally broke the silence, unintentionally interrupting his train of thought. The sound was very nearly startling; it was almost dangerously easy to lose himself to his own mental tirades without the Prozium to keep them organized.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replied indifferently, forcing himself away from the bars of his cage and back to his makeshift bed, not looking at her. It wasn’t entirely true, but once the initial hunger pangs had faded, he’d found eating less kept his mind from slowing, kept his thoughts more focused. What had started out as stubborn pride had soon become an experiment and had eventually become a habit. It had been roughly sixteen and a half hours since his last meal, a fact he was almost proud of. Though the smell of whatever roast was being served today seemed to permeate the air in a way that was utterly distracting.

“You look like you haven’t been sleeping either,” Molly continued on as if Sherlock hadn’t replied at all, something he gathered she did quite frequently in conversation, if only as a coping mechanism to her social insecurities. “Not that you look bad, you look quite good actually. I mean, you look tired, is all. Bags under yours eyes and such. Not that I blame you. That cot must not be the most comfortable, but…” She shook her head, willing her thoughts back into a proper ramble it seemed. Sherlock was barely listening. “What I mean to say is, we’ve all had them.” Something about the tone of her voice prodded at his attention, though he forced his eyes to stay locked on the ground in front of him. Still, resilient and oblivious as ever, she elaborated. “The nightmares, I mean.”

Sherlock flinched, willed his chest to loosen and his breaths to remain steady, focused, calm. Be calm. No, dammit. Be nothing. Feel nothing. Go back to the way things were. Not like this. Not with a racing heart and a cold sweat and a clenching sensation in his stomach at the memory of crumpled bodies and bloody paw prints and walls dripping blue and yellow and red and burning around him. Burning. He was burning. From the inside out. Burning alive in his own skull.

“Get out.” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, shutting his eyes and swallowing thickly when the images were that much clearer, memories refusing to be deleted.

“I was just-” Molly tried to backtrack, her voice wavering, nervous. But all Sherlock could hear were John’s words in his head.

_Because it should because it should because it should._

“I said,” Sherlock got to his feet, walked up as close to her as his cell would allow, and grabbed a bar in each hand, looming. When he spoke, his voice was low and menacing, as intimidating as he could make it. “Get. Out.”

Molly didn’t hesitate, hurrying out of the room with a squeak. Sherlock barely glanced at the roast at his feet before kicking it into the wall, trying not to be disappointed when the bowl didn’t shatter.

 

They left the underground Resistance camp after a few days, desperate, it seemed, to avoid whatever trackers had targeted their first location. What with the efficiency of the last raid, Sherlock didn’t necessarily blame them. Clearly they had someone of actual competency on his case.

This next hideout was intriguing; a recently abandoned reconstruction project on an office building. Many of the floors remained untouched, perfectly enclosed and furnished, while others were left open and almost skeletal, merely an empty structure of metal and cement keeping sections of the building from collapsing in on itself. Disgustingly ironic, if not a bit poetic. 

Sherlock was immediately led to his new cell. This time it was an empty room on the ground floor with a decrepit looking couch in the corner and a proper door, which was promptly locked the moment he’d been released from his cuffs. His windows were floor to ceiling on the far left side, letting in a substantial amount of light regardless of the City-Issued frosting that covered the glass. Sherlock raised a hand to it, pressing his fingertips to a slightly torn corner where the natural glass poked through. The glass underneath was warm, the light brighter and more yellow. Slowly, carefully, Sherlock began to worry at the tear, pulling it away from the glass, revealing more and more of the city’s reflection.

He hadn’t managed more than a couple of inches before he heard the deadbolt disengaging on the other side of his door. Sherlock jerked back from the window as if stung, taking a step away like he’d been caught out, though he had no idea for what.

It turned out to be the woman from his first night, Sally, her hair loose in a puff of tight curls this time but her glare just as fierce. “Hello, _Cleric_ ,” she hissed out the word like an insult. He supposed, to people like her, it was.

“Sally,” Sherlock straightened. “To what do I owe the intrusion?”

“Just shut up and put out your hands,” Sally rolled her eyes, holding the cuffs out, already opened and waiting, in his direction. “I’ve been ordered to bring you to the mess hall for lunch today.” At Sherlock’s questioning look, Sally merely shrugged, apparently as disgusted by the idea as he was. “Something about maybe getting you to eat if we’ve got eyes on you. I don’t know. Now hands.”

Sherlock briefly debated fighting her. It would be a relatively simple execution, regardless of the noticeably superior Gun Kata skills to her teammates---he still needed to figure out how John had come by such knowledge---but in the end he decided it was pointless. There was no way he was getting past Sally, a whole floor of John’s men, and John himself without being shot for his trouble. He was far from beaten, but he knew when the odds weren’t in his favor, and his lack of food and sleep would only hinder an impromptu escape plan. So, with his own overly dramatic roll of the eyes, Sherlock placed his hands in Sally’s cuffs.

“Now keep your mouth shut and follow me,” Sally said, though not before tightening the cuff a bit more firmly than necessary around his bad wrist, fractured hand throbbing almost instantly. “And the name’s Donovan where you’re considered, Cleric.”

The mess hall was about halfway up the office building, a sectioned off room which must have originally been the cafeteria. It seemed as though the kitchen was still functioning, judging by the smells that hit him as he walked through the door, though all the tables and chairs had all been removed. Which left groups of John’s remaining Resistance sitting in circles on the floor, mismatched plates and cups in hand. Everyone seemed somber, and any talking that had been occurring stopped completely once he walked in. 

Donovan led him to a relatively empty corner and pushed hard on his shoulder until he sat. He tried not to feel severely uncomfortable, but even as the room full of people began to softly chatter amongst themselves again, he found it impossible. Perhaps John was simply trying to torture him with social awkwardness and public humiliation. As if it were that easy.

“Chicken salad and a cinnamon cookie,” John’s voice was suddenly above his head, followed by his body sitting down not more than a foot in front of Sherlock, two trays in hand. Sherlock reacted instantaneously, his heart leaping unnervingly in his chest, his attentions going on full alert. 

It was so frustratingly distracting that he actually uttered a stunned, “What?” before he could stop himself. It took every inch of the self-control he’d been practicing not to groan in self-deprecation.

John, however, just looked amused. “Today’s lunch,” he said, placing Sherlock’s tray in front of him on the floor and setting his own on his knee. “We didn’t have enough cookies for everyone so I’ve got an apple, but you look like the sweet-tooth type, so better not waste it.” As if to punctuate the order, John chose that moment to take a fierce bite of said shiny, red fruit, the juice of it running down his chin for a moment before he wiped it off. Though Sherlock found he couldn’t stop staring at the bit still left on his lips.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock heard himself ask, and if his voice sounded a bit strained, it was out of agitation. Certainly. 

“Doing what?” John asked, taking another bite of apple. Sherlock forced himself to look away, narrowing his eyes at the empty wall to his right.

“Your petty attempts at breaking me are laughable and useless,” Sherlock spat, but at the sound of John’s poorly concealed scoff, he looked back. If it was possible for the man to look even more exhausted than he had a few days ago, he did, his eyes soft and understanding, but so, so tired. Strangely, Sherlock felt a bit guilty.

“I’m not trying to break you, Sherlock,” John sighed, and the sound of his name in John’s voice, said almost familiarly, if not laced with a bit of exasperation, made something clench in Sherlock’s chest. “I’m trying to get you to eat something. And sleep, if I can.” Something must have shown on Sherlock’s face, because he added with a small smile, “Yeah. Molly told me. And forcing yourself to stay awake isn’t going to make it all go away, either. In fact, it’ll just make it worse over time.”

“You don’t-” Sherlock started to say, but he cut himself off, closed his mouth into a tight, hard line and stubbornly held John’s gaze. There was so much he couldn’t say, didn’t know how to. 

_You don’t understand what goes on inside my head. You don’t see what I see when my mind takes over at night. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re being torn apart bit by bit by everything that was once so easily controlled. You don’t get it._

“I do,” John put the apple down and placed his tray on the floor, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hands. “We all do, Sherlock. You’re not special here. We’ve all been there, suffered the detox and the nightmares and the lack of control. But what you do control, is how you handle it.” John picked up his apple once again, gesticulating with it. “Not starving yourself, for one thing. You’re no good to me dead.”

“And alive?” Sherlock asked, making sure to keep the intrigue out of his voice. “What good am I to you then?” John stared at him for a moment before taking another bite of his apple. The sound of him speaking with his mouth full was strangely pleasing. Casual.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told Molly I wasn’t hungry,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. It felt stubborn and childish, but a part of him didn’t want John to know he’d won this game, even though it was probably obvious already. The sandwich did smell tempting.

“And you’ve probably convinced yourself you aren’t,” John shrugged, focus shifting from apple to sandwich. “But I’m still not leaving until you finish your lunch.”

That was… persistent. Interesting.

Sherlock snorted, though he did rip off a chunk of cookie and pop it in his mouth. The sudden and surprising burst of sugary sweetness was almost enough to break his composure. To distract himself from it, he asked, “Why do you care so much?”

John just threw him a look that said, “Are you really that dense?” and Sherlock winced.

_Because it should because it should because it should._

“Fine,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, avoiding the rest of the cookie in favor of popping pieces of chicken into his mouth between sentences. “But even you must hold at least a partial grudge against me. Not only am I a willing member of your self proclaimed nemeses, but I was the direct cause of the loss of half of your Resistance. Surely that doesn’t merit this level of courteousness.”

John seemed to dwell on that for a moment, throat working as he swallowed thickly before answering. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not aching every day over their loss. And I’m not going to pretend that it wasn’t your fault. But I’m also not one to condemn a man before he’s had a proper trial.”

“So now you’re Resistance has its own judicial system?” Court systems had been ruled out ages ago; it was deemed unnecessary with the Prozium laws so firmly in place. Leave it to John to take them all back to the dark ages.

John laughed, openly and abruptly enough to grasp the attentions of a good portion of the room, something Sherlock found difficult to ignore, especially considering the way the sound of the laugh settled under his skin. “Not exactly,” John said once his laughter had finally died down. “You see, all of this,” he gestured at Sherlock from top to bottom and then once around the room at large. “Everything you’re putting yourself through, everything you’re being forced to endure and suffer and come to terms with… That’s your trial. You’re judge, jury, and prosecution. We’re just here to wait for the results.”

“Seems a bit unfair to you lot, letting a Cleric decide his own fate.”

“We’ll see about that,” John got to his feet, stretching an arm over his head. Something called out to Sherlock about that. A strain in his shoulder, perhaps? An old wound?

“You were shot,” Sherlock stated involuntarily. John let his arms fall, raising an eyebrow at him, questioning. “Your left shoulder. It’s not fresh enough to be consistently painful, but it’s noticeably tense in comparison to your right. Unlike your leg, it’s not psychosomatic. A remnant of a raid? Or-?”

“You really are something, you know that?” John whispered, and if Sherlock didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that there was awe in his voice. Sherlock willed himself not to feel proud, and failed. John turned to leave. “I’ll be back for you before lights out. Sally will take you back to your cell.”

“Back for me?” Sherlock parroted before he could stop himself, still frazzled by the sudden realization that not only had he eaten all of his lunch, but he’d enjoyed himself while doing so. “What for?”

“You’re sleeping in my room tonight,” John said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Sherlock felt something hot and frightening rip through his very core, a tension rising to the back of his neck that made him very, very nervous.

“What?” He asked, narrowing his eyes up at John. “Why?”

John just smirked. “It’s amazing what some good company can do for a solid night’s sleep. And anyway, it’ll help me keep an eye on you. You keep going the way you have been and you’ll kill yourself.”

“I’m surprised you fail to see the benefit in that,” Sherlock huffed, stubbornly refusing to get to his feet as Sally approached. John smiled softer now, something in his eyes that, for once, Sherlock couldn’t seem to read. Something new. Like sadness but different.

“I’m surprised you don’t.”

 

As planned, John arrived roughly a half hour before lights out to collect him, waving away the guard with the cuffs and letting Sherlock walk freely at his side. It seemed careless. Any number of Gun Kata moves were available to him with his hands free, at least half of them probably capable of incapacitating John in seconds. Though a part of Sherlock found himself reluctant to underestimate the man. There was just as much mystery there as fact. For all he knew, John was just as skilled in Gun Kata as he was. For all he knew, it would be Sherlock incapacitated at the end of a grapple. It was thrilling to imagine.

“In you go then,” John smiled when they got to his room, a large office on the top floor, fully furnished, if not a bit old. It had a full sized bed in one corner as well as a desk and couch lining the opposite walls. But what caught Sherlock’s attention first were the windows. Though it wasn’t blatantly noticeable right away, especially at night, it was obvious the frosted layering had been removed from the glass, large strips of it sitting in the corner by the desk. Sherlock wondered briefly if John had been the one to do so and why.

“You’ll be sleeping on the couch, so make yourself comfortable,” John explained as he made his way to the bed. “I had a blanket brought up, but we’ve only got so many pillows, so you’ll have to make do.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was already loathing this… whatever it was of John’s. Experiment? It did seem unorthodox at best. Perhaps he had a hypothesis in mind, was gauging Sherlock’s sleep patterns, attempting to establish a suitable method of curing his so-called insomnia based off of a shift in variables. It made sense on a scientific level, though he was hardly what any good scientist would consider an appropriate subject. Still, the idea of John attempting to cure him of anything was pathetic. Be it insomnia or this deranged moral compass he’d associated with Sense Offense. Pathetic but entertaining nonetheless, which is the excuse Sherlock chose when he plopped himself down on the couch and threw an arm over his eyes.

No more than a minute later and his mind was already racing, the prospect of sleep scratching at the outskirts of thought like a subtle delirium, a disease laced with anxiety and nerves and panic and-

“I don’t see how this is suppose to be helping,” Sherlock huffed, the lights already out when he moved his arm a bit to peek out from underneath. 

“I haven’t even gotten into bed myself yet,” John chuckled, though it was only half amused. “Just give it a bit of time.”

Sherlock let out a sharp breath of air and closed his eyes again, listening to the sounds of the room, the sounds of John’s movements, the creak of the old bed as he settled in. The silence. The way John shifted underneath the blanket. The silence. The way John paused mid shift, let out a breath, paused again and shifted the other way. Uncomfortable? No. Something else.

“Shut up,” Sherlock sniffed.

“I haven’t said anything,” John’s voice echoed a bit softer from the other end of the room.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock mumbled. “And moving about. It’s annoying.”

“My breathing bothering you too, then?” John asked, though this time the amusement was all encompassing, and something in it seemed to calm Sherlock’s nerves a bit somehow.

“Probably,” Sherlock shrugged, though he knew John couldn’t see it.

“Just close your eyes and let sleep come,” John said through a yawn. “You’ll feel better when you do, I promise.”

Sherlock almost reminded John that he had no ability to keep such promises, but it seemed pointless. So, instead, he merely did as told, closed his eyes, and waited.

Thoughts blended into each other after a while, fragmenting and grouping in a way that made no sense, though he found the hazy effect of it meditative if not tediously unorganized. Regardless, he let himself float there for a while, toeing the line of true unconsciousness and this vague sort of in-between.

Until all the groupings began forming the vast landscape of a blood-soaked warzone, bodies littering the ground at his feet, all of them children and Molly and Lestrade and John and-

Sherlock jerked back to full consciousness with a gasp.

“Damn,” he hissed before he could stop himself, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t in his cell. That he wasn’t alone. He ran a hand over his face and let out a breath, ignoring the slight tremor as it passed his lips. He’d try again. One more time. And if it didn’t work, he’d lay there in silence until morning, tell John his experiment had been a success, and continue ignoring sleep for as long as his body would permit him.

Carefully, hesitantly, Sherlock closed his eyes once more.

He slipped back into that same half-sleep almost immediately, his mind whirring about in meaningless circles, reliving events of the day, flashing through images that were both nonsensical and familiar. But this time, when he felt himself slipping under completely, a sharp panic tugged at his chest, ripping him out of semi-consciousness and back to full alert.

Sherlock nearly groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He hadn’t even begun dreaming yet and already his mind was anxiously rejecting sleep. It was as if an involuntarily part of him was too wary of the possibility, reluctant to even allow him the benefit of a few hours of complete unconsciousness before forcing him awake.

As if having barely any control over his subconscious wasn’t enough, now he was barely in control of his semi-consciousness as well. Perfect.

Sherlock let out a long breath, shifting into a ball on his side.

Just _bloody_ perfect.

“Alright, that’s enough of that, then,” John sighed, the sound of him pulling up into a sitting position filling the following silence. Sherlock resolutely tucked himself into an even tighter ball in reply, to which John just chuckled wearily and added, “You’re sleeping with me.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

“Excuse me?” He asked a bit breathlessly to the couch cushions.

“I said,” John sighed again, followed by the sound of the bed creaking as he lowered himself back to the floor, the old carpet muting his footsteps, his voice dangerously close to the Sherlock’s back. “You’re sleeping with me. Now come on. I have to be up early tomorrow.” Sherlock felt John’s hand on his shoulder like an electric shock, his whole body tensing against it despite how it moved to comply. Without a word, Sherlock unfolded himself and followed, only tensing further when John stepped behind him and put a hand on each shoulder, pushing lightly until he’d climbed into the bed. There was no way this was going to help. If anything, this was only going to cause the opposite effect.

“There,” John nodded once Sherlock was under the blanket. “Now on your side, like that. And close your eyes.” 

Sherlock followed John’s instructions in robotic and frazzled silence, barely managing a surprised, “What are you doing?” when he felt John get behind him, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s back. He thought his heart was going to break free from his chest.

“Now you have a pillow, a blanket, and a heater,” John whispered softly in his ear. “Though, to be honest, I’ve found I’ve always slept better cuddled up next to somebody. Figured it might work for you.” John must have sensed something in Sherlock’s silence, because he added quickly, “If you’re uncomfortable, just say so and I’ll budge over. I just thought it couldn’t hurt.”

Sherlock considered saying just that, but then, after another few moments of silence, John’s arm moved to rest across Sherlock’s waist, the fingers of his free hand running lazily through Sherlock’s hair and… Well.

Gradually, subtly, Sherlock began to feel himself relax, began to let his eyes drift close and his heart settle. For a few blissful moment, the only things that registered were the sensations of John’s fingernails lightly grazing his scalp and his chest rising and falling with each breath. The sleeplessness of the past few days finally catching up to him. He was out before John’s fingers stopped moving.

And if he dreamt at all that night, he didn’t remember it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, guys. Thank every single one of you who commented and kudos'd and even just read this fic over the last month. You've kept me going on this when I was otherwised certain I was the only one still interested (you know who you are) so this chapter is dedicated to you ^_^ It's not as long as chapter four, but the update is some odd FIVE WHOLE MONTHS sooner than the last one... so I consider it a bit of a win. Still, I'll try to get this one up sooner this time, promise.


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